Every night, the Israeli air strikes continue to hit Rafah. The air is full of smoke. At home, we are trying to have a normal life, but it's not possible. We are scared to death. My dad is terrified, so my sisters and I are trying to be normal, to make him feel better. We talk about stories from the old days, to make him laugh. One of the funniest things we used to ask my father when we were children, when we watched cartoons on the TV, was: "Dad, can we get into the TV?" He'd say: "No, silly, you can't." Then we'd ask: "How did these other people get into the TV?"

We didn't sleep for more than an hour, so many explosions shook our house so strongly. Every 30 or 40 minutes the house is shaken. I feel like everyone is going to die, but I'm trying not to be scared. Tuesday 6 January

I woke up at nine and knew there was still a war going on. No electricity, the phones down, bombing and shooting.

In my family, we love the sun. We decided to sit outside and watch the F16s bombing Rafah. We see a missile strike the orphans' school. I don't know why they attack the schools, the mosques, the universities. The Israelis have attacked three schools - the al-Salah school for orphans in Jabalia, the American school in Gaza and the al-Fadela school in Rafah - 11 mosques and the Islamic University. I don't think this is a war against Hamas leaders.

One of the stories that makes make me feel most sad is about five children and their mother who were living on the border, in the buffer zone. Their mum decided to take them to a safer place. But just before they left, they were hit by an Israeli missile and all of them were killed.

Worse was to come. When I got home, the electricity was on. A chance to see the news. I couldn't believe what I saw - a UN school in Jabalia hit by Israeli shells. The school was full of refugees. Men, women and children, families who wanted somewhere safe to stay, all killed. Forty-two dead, they say. More than 100 injured. Wednesday 7 January

The Israelis have dropped leaflets telling people who live by the border to leave. If the Israeli soldiers observe anybody moving in the area, he or she will be killed.

This is what the leaflets say: "Citizens of Rafah: because Hamas is using your houses to smuggle and store ammunition, the Israeli Defence Force will attack your homes from Sea Street to the Egyptian border. To the people who live in these areas: Block O, Al Brazil camp, Al Shora area, Qishta area. You must evacuate your homes beyond Sea Street from the time you receive this leaflet/paper until 7am the following morning. For your and your children's safety, follow this leaflet. The leadership of the Israeli Defence Force."

My relatives, who live near the border, were terrified. We asked them to come to our house, two of my uncles with their families and my cousin with her children. That meant there were 32 people staying in my home. So many children. We slept on the floor. Another friend phoned and asked if we have space, we said, "Sure." They didn't have anywhere else to go.

My sisters and brother were laughing at the children and said in Arabic, "Jaish Atfal" - the children's army.

Among the kids were my two little cousins, Mohammed, six, and Hada, eight. Since the attacks began, Mohammed won't take his fingers out of his ears. He's terrified a bomb will hit him. When an explosion went off on the border, he and his sister sat in a corner holding each other, rocking.

I am grateful I have no children, so I don't have to worry that an Israeli tank or air strike could kill them.

My worst nightmare is that our house would be targeted and our whole family killed apart from one survivor. Better for us all to die. When the bombing stopped, I went with my friend Hassan, a paramedic whose house had been attacked. Then I saw my uncles' houses - two had been destroyed. One of my cousins was running and screaming, asking everyone, "Have you seen my daughter?" She didn't find her for hours; the girl was scared and hiding.

I went to the ambulance station - 12 ambulances have been targeted by the Israeli army and three paramedics died yesterday. I volunteered to accompany the ambulance crew when they go out, me and two international friends from Europe, from the International Solidarity Movement. Human shields. Maybe it will stop the Israeli army hitting the ambulances. We can try.

In Rafah, they tried to rescue some injured people near the border with Egypt - a rocket nearly hit the ambulance. They feel afraid. When I returned home, the city looked like a ghost town - most of the shops were closed. I saw a market open, a great chance to get more vegetables for a week. A few people run out, pick what they need, then run home. We are all running short of food now.

Night

F16s in the sky. No one in Rafah can sleep. The attacks shake our house again. We can see the smoke from the window again. Big attacks on the border. A scary sound. My sisters decided to sleep early to try to get some sleep before things got worse.

I watched the TV with my friend - news of the UN Security Council meeting. I told myself: "They will take a decision after the attack on the UN school. This must end now." I was shocked when they delayed the decision. When will the UN decide? After the Israeli army has finished? Friday 9 January

I woke at 7am, to a phone call from one of my friends in Nuserat. Last night, she and her family spent the night downstairs, sleeping on the floor, afraid to be in their bedrooms. Even though they live in the centre of the city and nowhere near the border. I asked her why - she said it's because the Israeli army warned her neighbours to evacuate the area. That means their house could also be attacked. She told me her daughters are scared all the time.

I tried to make her feel better. I told her I'd heard news that the UN Security Council had called for an immediate ceasefire in the Gaza Strip. Then, down the phone, I could hear explosions happening around her. "They are still bombing buildings and shooting here," she said.